


Christmas is Where You Are

by charlotteschaos



Category: Dark Is Rising Sequence - Susan Cooper
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-22
Updated: 2006-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 08:39:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1641974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlotteschaos/pseuds/charlotteschaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the first Christmas where Bran hadn't opened his gift on Christmas Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas is Where You Are

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this didn't get too sappy for you!
> 
> Written for glass_icarus

 

 

For the first time since he was eleven, there had been snow on Will Stanton's birthday. Up until his eleventh birthday, he'd wished for nothing but pure, soft flakes of snow to blanket the farm. The storm that year and the changes in his life since then had turned the pure whiteness into something to be wary of.

Though he tried not to think too hard on it, it still nagged in the back of his mind as a portent of things to come that he might find unpleasant. But then, he was no longer a boy about to turn eleven who was old for his age and on the cusp of a great adventure. For him, the great adventure was life, and in it, Bran.

Distantly, he could hear Bran in the other room practicing _Greensleeves_ on the harp. Not that Will's ear could tell that he needed any further practice. It was a rather basic song for harp, even if this arrangement was much more extravagantly lush than most chose to play. Bran's fingers struck with such sensitivity and light, plucking each note delicately, wringing it for every ounce of sound and resonance it could provide.

It was their Christmas tradition for Bran to practice for a couple of hours on the music he would play the next morning prior to his performance at St. Cadfan's church that was only a short walk away from their High Street flat in Tywyn. Bran had attended the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama, furthering a classical education in the harp.

At the time, Owen Davies had objected to Bran's choice, wishing he would choose a Bible school instead. He'd had lofty ideas of Bran becoming a pastor or perhaps a missionary, but once Bran was of an age to make his own choices, he set religion on a backburner. When the Royal Welsh College offered Bran a generous scholarship after they'd heard him play, there was no way that Owen would win out, no matter how much he protested.

Aside from Bran's disinterest in working for the church in general, he and Will had discovered a mutual interest in one another the summer before. Though Bran insisted that nothing "sinful" take place in Owen's home, he bore the weight of his secret each time his father, the deacon, left for church. Bran often said that he wasn't sure if it was his one regret or a small mercy that Owen took a tumble near Cader Idris. Bran didn't understand why his father was roaming there, but Will imagined that Owen likely went there yearly to visit where he believed Bran's mum had vanished.

Will leaned closer into their bedroom window that looked out on the High Street, pressing his forehead against the glass. From the windows, warm yellow light shone out over the snow as a few stragglers ventured home, weaving in and out of blue shadow.

The music stopped and Will turned when he heard the heavy footfalls of Bran venturing nearer. Light reflected from Bran's corrective lenses and glimmered off the silvery frames. A few more steps and Bran was there, his arms weaving around Will.

"That was beautiful," said Will. Coming back down to earth, he found that he'd been shivering.

"Flat's crap for heat if you're standing near the window," said Bran. He was grinning in that self-satisfied way that said that he knew what a brilliant harp player he was. Will would've found it annoyingly self-assured on someone else's face after a compliment, but somehow Bran made it endearing. "Astral projecting again?"

When Bran was in school, he met a violin player that he wrote reminded him of Will. He called him a "spooky magical bloke" who toyed with crystals and incense. Will had never enjoyed the comparison, although he chalked some of that up to his being jealous that Bran had noticed someone else while he was so far away in Oxford. Another part of him was waiting, holding its breath, hoping that that meant that Bran had recognized that Will was magic and had made that association. He couldn't help but hope that Bran would someday recover what he lost.

Bran didn't know it, but they were both men with finished destinies. Sometimes Will longed to tell him that he was so much more than a travelling harp player who barely scraped by month-to-month. Sometimes Will wondered if Bran's proper path hadn't been to become a future saint and that he'd derailed him. Then he would remind himself that fate would work its will with or without his consent.

Really, Bran could've been so much more even as a musician were it not for his determination not to leave Wales for any longer than holiday or a few quick performances. Sometimes his wants for Bran were so far reaching that it frustrated him that he seemed to have little more ambition than to just _be_.

But then Bran would look at him as he was now, with a mixture of curiosity, amusement and adoration, his lips curved up as his eyes searched his face. Bran dropped the stare and kissed Will's forehead.

"Clammy. Just how I like it," Bran teased.

"The window, I'm sor--" said Will, but he was cut off by Bran catching his lips into one of those tender and exquisitely demanding kisses that made his heart flutter.

Tilting his head to the side, he wrapped his arms around Bran, mingling their tongues so that he could taste the gingerbread and wassail on his tongue. He smelled of cinnamon, resin and fresh-fallen snow. It was the way Will thought Bran should always smell.

He slid his fingers through Bran's fine hair as he felt his broad, strong back, pressing their chests together. Will always felt as if their hearts beat in time to one another-- that despite their misunderstandings and Bran's inability to remember their quests, at their root they really were still the same. He and Bran were magical men, somehow outside of the time that they were living in.

"I want you to open your present tonight. I can't wait," said Bran, his precise, crisp voice a result of his Welsh upbringing. He stood back, pale face made luminous by the street light.

Behind Bran, Will saw the fuzzy reflection of their Christmas jewel-toned tree lights on the glossy hardwood floor. So Bran had turned on the Christmas lights. This was a premeditated attack.

"It doesn't mean I'm giving you yours tonight, you know," said Will, knowing that he wouldn't be able to resist. They never had anything to open Christmas morning after returning from Bran's church performance. Will didn't mind.

"You are under no compulsion to give me anything you do not wish for me to have, William," Bran teased before turning on the ball of his foot to head to the living area.

Their flat was tiny in spite of what Will was often paid for his translation work. Bran would take no larger space than he could afford half of monthly. As a concession to Bran's pride, they both ignored that Will paid the utilities and groceries.

Bran sat before the tree and pulled out a box he'd tucked under it. Will took the spot next to him and admired the unusual purple and green paper.

Will wriggled his hand out from under the oversized red jumper he was wearing. It was too big for him, but it was festive and soft and he wore it almost exclusively on Christmas. Bran was in a neat green cashmere jumper that was Will's gift to him the year before. Will could afford to splurge, but Bran's presents tended to be handmade. It made Will cherish them even more.

When he pulled back the paper, he found that his present wasn't _in_ a box, but actually was a box. It was a rosewood box inlaid with an abalone shell circled quartered by what appeared to be onyx. It was a sign he hadn't seen in this form in years. He pressed his palm over it to measure the size of the symbol and it fit perfectly, at least from what he could remember, and given how he'd grown since he was eleven.

Will's heart was thundering in his chest as he wondered if this didn't mean that Bran remembered. If he had, then when? He tried not to get his hopes up too much. There had been far too many false alarms where he read into things too far.

"This is," said Will breathlessly, "an interesting symbol. Where did you... come up with that?"

Bran was clearly impressed with his own brilliance, as he was grinning brightly. "I learned it from you," he said, pushing his chin-length white hair back from his face.

"Me?" Will didn't know what to say. It could mean anything. Maybe Bran saw it in a dream.

Taking Will's right hand, Bran turned it over carefully and edged his sleeve up over the wrist where Will had been branded with the Sign of the Light. Will swallowed hard and smiled at himself. Of course. How could Bran have really missed that all of these years? He was a clever man, and he had mentioned it here and there. Will felt particularly foolish now.

If Bran noticed his discomfort, he didn't say anything. He simply traced over Will's scar thoughtfully. "It reminds me of things, though. Your scar. It makes me think of things I see in dreams. I leave the magic to you, usually, but I don't know. Sometimes the dreams seem so real. Like there was another life we had briefly."

"Oh?" asked Will, again feeling that rush of adrenaline.

"Yes. I guess it's my mind trying to make something more epic about why we're together. Delusions of grandeur and all. But sometimes... I don't know. I just feel different and I thought maybe for a while the difference was that I liked men."

"Man," said Will, grinning as he placed his hand on top of Bran's.

"Man," Bran agreed. "But when I see this, it makes me think of those dreams and it makes me question if there isn't something bigger that binds us together. I don't really know too many people our age or any age who've been together as long as we have. I'm probably making more of it than it was. Anyway, I know you said it was a baking accident when you were younger, but I guess it's just something that haunts me. You think I'm mad, don't you?"

The box was nice, but what Bran said, what he thought, what he understood somehow without even knowing the truth was so much better than any Christmas present he'd ever gotten. It completely dwarfed the watch Will bought. He flung his arms around Bran and pulled him closer, sliding his hands over his back again.

He knew now that from now on, every Christmas, he was going to be happy so long as he woke up next to Bran, whether they were in a shabby flat or the finest hotel in London.

"Come on," said Will as he stood up and offered a hand to Bran.

"What? Where are we going? I haven't opened my present!" Bran protested before he shot Will a confused look.

"And I haven't finished _thanking you_ for my present," said Will. He tilted his head and flicked it back towards the bedroom suggestively.

Bran wasted no time in getting onto his feet. "Really like boxes, do you?" he asked, grinning as he grabbed Will's hand to pull him into the bedroom.

Will laughed and nodded. "Yeah, something like that," he said before tackling Bran onto the bed. As nice as the cashmere jumper was, it just had to go.

With the way that Will felt and the way that Bran was already touching him through his jeans, this would be the first year that Bran had something to open from Will that Christmas morning.

 


End file.
